Insufficient User HiQ
by gruff
Summary: Extract from Insufficient User Hi-Q: The Prime Diaries. When he opted to join Prime, no-one told Hi-Q he was not only to serve as his engine, but also as Optimus Prime's personal assistant. Some days are better than others. This was a particularly bad one


Insufficient user Hi-Q by gruff

0000 Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean "What do you mean it's still yesterday?" bellowed Prime.

Not the best start to a day.

Prime was not happy. Prime was angry. Hell, Prime had a touch of 'the Megatron' about him. Not just regular 'I've got a micro-chip on my shoulder'-Megatron-angry. No, Prime was more 'My body has been possessed by a Time-Warped Galvatron and I want to kick some butt'-Megatron-angry. Prime, as they say in this part of the galaxy, was pissed. Not for the first time, I explained the concept of time zones and the humans' insistance of separate localised chronology. It didn't seem to help. He just sat gazing out of the window of our East-bound aircraft and into the night sky behind us, longing for the non-existant international date line to return and give him back the weekend he had been so looking forward to. "It's the lack of infra-red technology." I hypthosesised. "They can't deal without a time cycle dictated by sunlight. It's also why they have..." I felt Prime's optics narrow with comtempt, "...daylight savings time?" I whispered almost to myself, my voice tailing off.

There were no two ways about it. It was still Friday and we had the whole lot to get through today (again) before Saturday and the chance to unwind a little. We sat in silence for a little while. "And this in-flight movie is terrible." Prime complained, finally re-activating his vocal circuits. Skyhammer turned his head a little over his shoulder towards his disgruntled passengers. With an out of Prime-sight gesticulation to the pilot, I sliced my finger across my neck warning him this was not the time to remind Prime it has he who had cut the Autobot travel budget. "I mean, a bunch of stupid cars living in some redneck desert town. Why did that creepy couple lock their doors when Hot Rod..."

"Lightning." I corrected him. Whenever Prime saw brash foolhardiness he immediately thought of that jumped up exhaust kisser. "Lightning McQueen."

"Whatever - why would they lock their doors when there are no humanoids to break into them?" He grumbled. "It makes no sense."

"I think it was aimed at a human audience. They have a more subtle humour." I reminded him. Prime just shook his head and grumbled some more. He was just angry because we had a long flight in prospect ever since our calamatous trip to Japan. We had been due to spend a week or so forging links with the Autobots based in Japan. But for one reason or another, it all went wrong. Actually, it was for one reason in particular, namely Prime's misrecognition of Star Sabre. It was, as the humans described it, a 'flesh wound', but the damage had been done and the greatest Autobot leader (from our side of the Pacific at least) was sent packing. All our plans went to pot, so I hastily rearranged our schedule. Even bought us some publicity courtesy of some Hollywood TV studio.

I pointed out the order of the day to Prime. 10am we had a public relations exercise with some kids in the studio. 1pm we were supposed to be dining with the 'governator' of California, whoever that was. I had a feeling my pre-arranged logistical requirements were going to ignored. "I told you," I found myself imagining my pre-emtive complaint to the proprietor of the conference suite where we were due to meet later today, "my client doesn't do caviar." I shook my head to put these thoughts to the back of my mind for a second and returned to the matter in hand and the afternoon schedule. A technical report and seminar hosted by Wheeljack and Ironhide RE: some fry-by-wire remote controlled laser security door. That kicked off at 5pm for a few hours leaving his open surgery hour from eight 'til nine. Perfect, after that a solid three hours to kick Megatron's inevitably smug ass as he tried to mount some overly-complicated plan to take over Autobot City using whatever weapon that came free with this month's Massacre Magazine, carelessly overlooking Starsream's misplaced ambition that will naturally screw up the deal anyway.

0700 LAX "So, what time is it now then?" Prime asked again, shaking his head and fiddling with his chronometer. As if being couped up in the back of Skyhammer's enormous transport aircraft for several hours wasn't bad enough, now there was immigration to negotiate.

"Eight." I lied. Getting him worked up now and making him think that he was late would pay dividends later at 9.30 when I would point out it was an hour earlier than he thought it was and that we were actually early. And how's about a pay rise in regonition of his favourite PA for guiding him through this unholy mess? "But don't worry, we've got plenty of time."

"Okay!" called the desk attendant. "Next please." His eyes looked up at the menancing figure of a humiliated Prime. He detested coming into the country having to take the slow international route into the States because he did not qualify for US citizenship. He took a step forward mumbling something about 'Johnny Five' and special priviledges for movie star robots. "Oh, er, so are you, like an alien?"

Prime said nothing. His days of pointing out the obvious were behind him. His enthusiasm for the human population, it was safe to say, was wavering. In fact, a sharp gust of wind might send him over the edge completely. Jon Walters was potentially that wind. As the guy at the counter charged with oveseeing immigration policy was observed, he had the unenviable task of pointing out to Prime that the immigration form I had so painstakingly prepared for him was no good if he had lost it.

"I need you to fill out this card, sir." Walters placed a replacement form on counter. Prime looked at the tiny scrap of paper with disgust and the tinier inking implement they had issued for its completion, then looked over at me waiting behind the line for support. I shrugged and waved my completed form. I had told him to let me hold onto it. My small stature meant I could handle it. I knew he would lose it. Hell, the number of times he lost his trailer in the parking lot should have sent the alarm bells ringing. He was sure to lose a sheet of paper. But oh no. He was Prime. He wanted to look after his own visa form. How hard could it be? Too hard, apparently. It was dwarfed by his ample fingertips, like a human trying to hold onto a single grain of salt. He looked back at the guy in the booth and asked if it were entirely necessary. "I'm sorry, sir, but unless you fill out this form you cannot enter the country." Prime struggled to pick up the pen, damn near punching a hole in the wall of the booth as he tried.

Like a child frustrated with a puzzle, Prime snapped. "The Hell I can't!" He boomed and ending his failed attempt to pick up the pen. "Have you any idea what I've done for you and your people?" The men with the guns pricked more than their ears at his outburst. Nice one Prime. Keep that up and they'll not just kick you out of the country but most probably off the planet too. But the Jobsworth behind the counter was starting to grasp the reality of the situation, telling a hundred foot robot to check in like everyone else without the means to back up his demands if things were to get dirty. Walters pointed out that there was an 'accessibility assistant' who could help fill out the form who should be back any time soon. He waved Prime back behind the line and called for me and the rest. The forms were stamped and we made it through. Prime, though, had to wait.

"We'll pick up the gear from customs while you wait here." I offered. "See you outside?" Prime sat down back behind the line complaining about wretched mudballs run by moronic bureaucrats. No kidding, Sherlock. Welcome to Earth.

0930 Hollywood Bang on time, or an hour early, however you want to think of it, we finally rolled up to the studio. Prime, still livid from his detention at the airport, was panicking that we were going to be late, or rather that we were already late. He even left his trailer at the airport to save time. Getting all that equipment through immigration was going to take more than a rubber stamp. I told him he should have left it here rather than take it with him to Japan, but no, he was Prime and his trailer was 'a part of him'. Roller, too, for that matter. Primus, after last time and the problem involving an 'undeclared alien in the rear of a trailer vehicle' though you would have thought he would have learned. However, I delivered my time check and pointed out that he must have set his chronometer wrong and that we still had plenty of time. The look of relief was priceless and probably set his mind at ease. For a moment it even allowed him to forget about the airport and the incident at the X-ray machines, which, as I recall, he never got around to explaining to me what happened. "Let's just say if someone asks you to open up or else," was all he told me, "don't ask them 'or else what?' unless you have a complete understanding of what a can-opener is." Never did find out what happened, or why it was that Prime walked with a slight limp for the rest of the day. No, more important than any of this was that this wave of relaxation earned me a few Brownie points.

0952 Hollywood "Just keep him smiling." encouraged Audrie, the overworked production assistant with more communication channels bulging from her midriff than Blaster at an Audio Convention. My silent frown explained that this may be difficult. She looked up at our subject and the stupid mouthpiece he kept over his face to keep the dust mites out of his oral circuitry. Prime was old-school; mouth plates were so last millenium. I think I must have accidentally said as much because as she tried in vain to shove the giant robot onto the makeshift stage, he didn't budge an inch. "Just keep smiling anyway!" Audrie encouraged again. Instead Prime simply narrowed his optics in a manner that was starting to get annoyingly frequent, and, come to think of it, frequently annoying. "You know what I mean." Audrie mumbled. Prime muttered something from under his mouthplate about 'old school' and not wanting to be rushed like some young gun on hi-octane energon. He was older, we should know, and that he such a states'bot should be treated with some 'something-or-other'. I didn't hear what the 'something-or-other' was - knowing Prime, it was probably 'respect' - but this was TV and TV had no time for respect. That's why it was chock full of papparazzi and celebrity chefs. I shoved Prime, lending a little weight to Audrie and this time and he finally stumbled into view.

1000 Hollywood An unmitigating disaster. Mental note: don't let Prime into the custody of human TV presenters before giving him his morning hit of energon, hi-octane or otherwise. Calling the President of your adopted homeland the names he did was not the way to get your Green Card extended. You would have thought he was gunning for the job himself! Refusing to transform on stage didn't help either. Prime said he was a Transformer, not some freak show for entertainment. True, but this was morning television. It was all about entertainment and TV freaks are the best. He made the point that you wouldn't ask a handicapped human to burn donuts around the studio in his electric wheel chair simply for being disabled. Once again, true, and this might have been sufficient, but he went on to make an other analogy about pedophiles and asking them to demostrate exactly what is was they yanked their chains. No Prime. Bad Prime. That's not cool Prime. That one didn't go down so well. It even made some of the kids on the show start to cry. The presenter signed off with a quip about Wreck-Gar who had been on the show a few weeks earlier, something about him being a real entertainer who spoke the language of TV and knew how to talk to kids.

1030 Hollywood Thanks to Prime's on-air outburst the photoshoot with the kids went quicker than planned. No-one wanted to be seen near him, let alone have their photograph taken with him. But after much apologising on his behalf (by me), one premature human did offer to pose, via his pushy mother, but the fluid streaming from his optics clearly showed this was not a voluntary agreement. The photographer started to get snidey too. Prime repeated his status as Transformer, not entertainer, but finally succombed to his nagging and transformed into his vehicle mode. This finally got some of the kids smiling again. Finally, the first good news of the day! We were making good time. Perhaps today wasn't going to be such a chore after all? Finally, there were all smiles. What could possibly go wrong? I left Prime with the kids and the photographer so I could call Pipes to go the airport to pick up Prime's trailer.

What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything apparently. I walked back into the studio to find Prime in his robot form, surrounded by screaming kids, a panicking photographer and about ten irate mothers, one of who was pulling at a terrified youngster dangling from the chest of the Autobot leader. "Calm down!" Prime was screaming, bent over and down on his knees. Prime's optics looked up and fell into my gaze of awe. He shook his head with dismay. "I told him not to press anything." The child had been posing in Prime's cab. Everything had been hunky dory. But for whatever reason, Prime had transformed with the human still inside. While he seemed unscathed by this, Prime that is, the human got his cloth-like armour (or clothes as they call it) caught in the transformation mechanism. With his basketball shirt well and truly gummed up in the mechanics of Prime's chest, the youngster dangled in tears. Prime saw it appropriate to explain that it could have been worse. "That could have been your hand." He tried to console the hysterical child. "And if it had been, it would have been snapped clean off." That didn't help.

As mothers screamed at the photographer demanding photographic evidence Prime's abuse, I waded through the bodies and tried to defuse the situation. "Look!" I shouted. "This was an accident. I'm sure we can..." I was cut short by the sound of ripping synthetic material and the screams of the child who fell out of his shirt, landing in a heap on the floor, the impact cushioned by his stunned mother. Prime reverted back to his semi-truck mode and opened his door so that the hysterical child's stuffed toy could be reunited with its owner. Or rather, half of it. The head had been severed by some unforgiving transformation mechanism and was nowhere to be seen. Figuring we had done enough damage it decided it was time to leave. "No." I corrected myself. "I don't think this could possibly get any worse."

1130 LAX Things were about to get a whole lot worse.

I guided Prime back to the airport parking lot to wait for Pipes. We still had plenty of time to make it the five or ten miles across to the conference suite near Westwood but time was starting to look a little pressed. Pipes should have been here by now. He had been working with Powerglide and Grapple at the airport installing a new hangar, supposedly to help the Autobots in and out of immigration quicker. All he needed to do was down-tools for five minutes, pick up the trailer from the customs officials and meet us in the lot.

1155 LAX Pipes finally turned up. Unhitched. Prime's optics narrowed for the fiftieth time today. "Where's my trailer?" he demanded. Pipes transformed to his robot form and shrugged with an empty-handed grimace of dismay. Pipes explained that there was a 'documentational irregularity' relating to the contents of the truck that would need to be resolved 'later this day'.

"In short," Pipes summarised, "it's impounded." Prime looked him in the eyes with disbelief. Pipes shook his head. He explained that once it had been unloaded from Skyhammer's transporter the airport police were around it like flies 'round organic discharge. Prime shook his head in anger, then switched his attention to me like it was somehow my fault. My optics glanced left and right a little before shrugging.

"If it's impounded, it's impounded." I reminded him. "There's nothing we can do." I urged, tugging on his arm. "Come on!"

"I'm not going without my trailer!" Prime protested like some spoiled Cassettecon, folding his arms and looking into space. Primus. What a drama queen. I checked my chronometer. This time we really were going to be late. "Last time they impounded it they damaged lots of sophisticated equipment that I had a hard time explaining to Wheeljack." Prime's rendition of the truth was a little misplaced. It was me that had to explain to Wheeljack why Prime's trailer needed repairing, not Prime. Prime had sworn this was the last time he was going to let his trailer get impounded. Nice going, Prime.

1259 The Hotel Suite Prime pulled up the front of the venue for our conference suite and transformed. Although I couldn't see it behind that rediculous mouthplate of his, I'm sure there was a smug grin from audio receptor to audio receptor. I wasn't listening, but I'm sure he must have made some equally smug statement observing that we had plenty of time. Yeah, right Prime. The humans have an expression for this. I don't know what a nick of time is, but I'm pretty sure we were well and truly just in it. Twenty blocks in midday traffic with Prime's trailer finally through customs dangling from his rear, barely hooked on. We might have taken a few traffic cones out but all in all we made it. That was more than could be said for my order.

"Look!" I angrily pointed out to the waiter who stood trembling, just as I had anticipated. "It clearly states here on my form under the 'any special dietary requirements' heading that my client requires grade 4 Cybertronion energon." The waiter glanced at the tray of lentils, carrots and other non-meat products usually assumed for the herbivores that make life difficult for caterers. "It does not state vegetarian anywhere."

"But I just thought..."

"But, you see, you didn't think, did you?" I snapped. "I mean, just because because we checked 'special dietary requirements' doesn't mean he's vegetarian. My guest could have been a Hindu or a Sikh for all you know." The waiter looked up at Prime's head, perhaps trying to figure out if the blue pointy thing was a turben or not. "Take it back." I demanded.

Our large Austrian host muttered incomprehensively about global climate change, terrorism, the need for a cleaner and safer future and something about swearing to be back later when the next elections came aruond. It was dull stuff. The politicians talked to a hungry and disgruntled Prime who had to make do with cheap fuel from the Gas-o-Mart around the corner. How little it takes for an Autobot leader's spirits to drop.

1430 The Hotel Suite That was a waste of time. Nothing got sorted. Prime made the same remarks about the President he had made on the kid's show this morning. They weren't good then and they weren't good now. However, Prime had gotten into a scrape when he finally recognised who our host was and began babbling about his metallic skeleton and that the city was about to get nuked. Once again, it was Prime's fault for the shoddy choice in in-flight entertainment. I decided it was about time we left. Perhaps we could catch a few hours of shutdown and maintenance before our next appointment.

"No!" Prime insisted. "We must protect the humans from this creature!" He screamed, as I did my best to hold off his bulk from clouting the Governator.

"To be fair," I challenged, "the humans, as you put it, did vote for him, so really it's their fault." Prime calmed for a second. I told him we should go. Prime looked angry at my ordering of him. "Hey," I commented, "I can do what we want. It's your schedule." I explained cryptically. Not offering so much as a moment for Prime to deliberate on what I said, lest he might figure out my wayward logic, I continued. "You don't think that I know what's best." I observed. Prime nodded. "And I know it's best that you don't think." I rearranged for him.

Prime thought for a second. "I don't think?" He mused, scratching his head. He had no reason to do this, just that all the great human thinkers adopted this pose so perhaps he felt obliged to.

"Therefore you aren't." I told Leuitenant Columbo, or whomever he thought he was. "Now, let's go, Prime

1700 The Testing Range After an hour's drive into the desert and a short nap in Autobot City, we joined Wheeljack and Ironhide in the testing range in the rocky sands surrounding the base. Ironhide spent forever over the ins and outs of this new security device. But Prime and I were past caring. It had been a long day - a long Friday, no less. No, in fact it had been TWO long Fridays if you include yesterday in Japan. Ironhide demonstrated the electic gate that could be operated by remote control or programmed to be computer controlled. It was simple, he claimed, any idiot could use it. Beats me, therefore, why it took him two and a half slagging hours to demonstrate it. As if he finally felt our pains, Ironhide made some excuse about having to leave and talk to Huffer about some union business and that Wheeljack could fill in the blanks.

1930 The Testing Range Ironhide transformed and left leaving me, Prime and Wheeljack. Wheeljack had barely said a word. He had spent too long talking to Ironhide. Primus, if there was anyone who could talk the rear tyre off a sports car it was Ironhide. Heck, it reminded me of the time Kup and Ironhide accidentally got locked in a briefing room for 3 days. They didn't even notice they were locked in...

"So," I began, facing Wheeljack and prodding Prime in the side to wake him from his pretend consciousness, "in short how does this work?"

Wheeljack shrugged. "You just press that button on the left and it turns the grid on."

"And that's it?" Prime asked.

"Pretty much." Wheeljack nodded. Now why couldn't Ironhide talk so summaratively? "Give it a go." He suggested handing Prime the control box. Now, maybe it was the tiredness, or maybe his marbles are going but for some reason, Prime's finer hovered over the right button, the one on the left, yet seemed to need some reassurance,

"This one?" he asked. Wheeljack nodded.

"That one, right." He confirmed. Stupid Prime. So, predictably he pressed the right one, i.e. the wrong one.

"Hmm." Prime noted with a pause for second or so, our optics peering through the evening darkness out towards where a big electric gate should have been glowing brightly. "Nothing's..." 'happening', he didn't say. as the echo of an enormous explosion thundered across the valley. Instantly the three of us turned on our heels to see a huge ball of flame and the small robot mode of Ultra Magnus flying through the air closely followed by chunks of his trailer, the frightened Autobot screaming in fear.

As soon as we saw Magnus take to his feet, his body trembling with fear, our optics continue to pan across to see the smoking cannon whose payload Prime had just unwittingly launched at his friend. "Oh shoot!" Prime spat, and must have dropped the controller.

"Oh shoot!" Wheeljack echoed. We look back across the gloom to see Mangus screaming and dancing wildly around his smouldering trailer.

"He must never know." Prime whispered. Wheeljack and I nodded, before gently stepping backwards. Once we were sufficiently far enough away, the two of them transformed into their vehicle forms with me taking my usual place place in the engine mount.

1959 Autobot City We made it back to our office. Now it was time for the dreaded open surgery hour. We bypassed the line of well-wishers queuing up outside the door. But this was not the gruesome prospect of having one's innards ripped apart by an over-cantankerous Ratchet. No, this was something much worse. This was the time Prime had to sit for an hour like some politician working to serve his ilk. An hour of unscripted, appointmentless grumbleweeds complaining they need this or that, or that Prime should do this or that, or that Prime should say this or that, or that Prime should do none of the above. They were invariably asking for more money, more energon and more anything else they could get their hands on. Prime's surgery hour was like a Sicilian wedding. Prime sat at his desk and looked at the televisual monitor showing the long queue waiting for his attention. His head fell to his hands. How could this be? He was supposed to be in Japan right now - how did word get back to so many so quickly that he was available this week after all?

Buzz!

The hour began and so did the minutes:

2000 Wheeljack Request: 2,000 tonnes of raw energon for continuation of an unnamed project.  
Discussion: This was a quick one. No-one was particularly comfortable with this discussion at all. This should have been off the record, but I'm too thorough for that sort of behaviour. After Prime's monumental screw up, he immediately agreed that sufficient resources could be diverted from the secret stash we had for emergencies. Wheeljack was never to report this to Ultra Magnus, nor indeed anyone else and that the energon lost in the disaster would remain accounted for internally and that was all that mattered. "Whatever happens," Prime pointed out, "this conversation never took place. Agreed?". We agreed.  
Action: Request approved. 2,000 tonnes of raw energon to be allocated to Wheeljack to restock the artillery cannon discretely.

Buzz!

2008 Blaster Request: $10,000 for music Discussion: Blaster wanted cash to purchase human music in order to keep 'in tune' with the 'peeps'. It was necessary in order to maintain his status amongst the population for Auto-human relations and to hold down his weekly spot down at the Rock'n'Bop nightclub over on 15th. Prime pointed out that Blaster had already received several thousands of dollars that he had felt appropriate to use to purchase 'bling'. This was always going to be a non-starter given that last time Prime had visited, the doormen had refused entry based on his shoes. Or lack of them.  
Action: Request denied. No further action necessary.

Buzz!

2017 Arcee Request: Gender specific respraying areas Discussion. Apparently, while applying spray paint to her figure, trying to raise her asthetic appearance to attract the remaining Autobots sufficiently enough to mount a gender-harassment suit for even looking at her, she decided she needed a separate changing area from the rest. Prime and I looked at each other. "You're a robot." Prime obsevered. "You're already naked. A respraying room makes no differeence!" This one didn't take so long!  
Action: Request denied. No further action necessary.

Buzz!

2021 Ultra Magnus Request: Some materials to reconstruct his trailer, a complete investigation into the incident and permission to decapitate the perpetrator.  
Discussion: Primus, if I thought Prime was Megatron-angry this morning, Magnus was Unicron-angry. We sat as straight-faced as possible as he retraced his steps this evening. He explained how he was simply returning to the city after a hard day's indecision. "And then out of nowhere - Whoosh!" Magnus boomed with additional hand gestures.

Neither Prime nor I said anything for a moment. I broke the pause. "Whoosh? You say?" I tried to sound investigative and tapped away on my arm-mouned console, pretending to take notes.

"Yeah," Magnus continued, "and my trailer had just..." His voice trailed off and his arms raised into an involuntary shrug.

I looked at Prime. "Whoosh?" I suggested. Magnus nodded. Prime and I suggested perhaps decapitation was a little over the top. Magnus agreed, pointing out perhaps it was Highbrow and in which case decapitation was a rather moot point. Magnus said he would think about a more suitable punishment. In the mean time, we gave Magnus the resources and access to a workshop, primising to get Huffer to help.  
Action: Request approved. Sort of. We allocated resources to Magnus and made a note to get Huffer to help out. As for the investigation...

After Magus left, Prime told me to delete that last entry from the records. "We can make it sound like he just went crazy." He suggested, looping his finger next to the side of his head.

"Way ahead of you, Prime." I explained. "We'll call it spontaneous combustion."

Buzz!

2031 Blaster (via intercom)  
Request: $50,000 bail Discussion: Blaster informed Prime that he had found a cheaper, more cost-effective way of getting hold of the music. The problem was that he had been informed this was a highly illegal way of accessing music that these artists spent literally hours recording and now they were missing out on the millions of hard-earned dollars income they richly deserved. Something to do with downloading and how was he to have known? He was being held by Prowl until such time as the human police force came. Blaster was reminded him that he should have thought of that before he got caught and his need to respect the law, before being re-reminded of the generous stipend Prime had already given just a couple of months ago.  
Action: Reqeust denied. No further action necessary.

Buzz!

2037 Huffer Request: extra pay for extra work Discussion: Huffer is the head of the Autobot Union of Construction Workers. Yes, we have unions too. Huffer explained that he and his workers had been overstretched for two long. Yadda yadda yadda. Not particularly good minutes, I must admit, but he did go on a bit, dragging up references to unpaid work from the past, the rising cost of hiring good help these days etc. I started to fall asleep over this one. Damned unions always wanting more out of us. I perked up when he added an extra complaint over having to help Magnus on an unscheduled repair workload. I looked at Prime, who looked back in shock.  
Action: Request to be revisited pending a fuller review of the construction budget. That ought to keep the little scraplet quiet for a couple of weeks at least.

How did Huffer know about the Magnus job already? We hadn't even sent out the order yet. We concluded that 'these wall have ears'. Speaking of which:

Buzz!

2051 Blaster (via intercom)  
Request: $50,000 bail plus $25,000 music budget (monthly), 2 tonnes of processed energeon (monthly), free amplification hardware Discussion: A voice appeared that sounded very much like that of Optimus Prime BLASTER: "PRIME'Whatever happens, this conversation never took place. Agreed?'"  
BLASTER: "ME'Whoosh?'"  
PRIME: ""  
BLASTER: "PRIME'Delete that from the investigation log. We can make it sound like he just went crazy.'"  
BLASTER: "ME'Way ahead of you, Prime. We'll call it spontaneous combustion.'"  
PRIME: "Name your price."  
BLASTER: "$50,000 bail plus $25,000 music budget every month, 2 tonnes of processed energon every month, a free amplification hardware tune up, and entry costs for the national DJ convention in Vegas later that month, all expenses paid. And I want luxury living quarters and one of those neat Action Master buddies. You know, a jet pack or something. Oh yeah, and I want Arcee's personal home phone number."  
Prime shrugged. I think we both agreed that was a small price to say for Blaster's silence.  
Action: Request provisionally approved, negotiations to continue. $75,000 to Blaster to be transferred immediately. Other items to be delivered upon a later date. Blaster agrees to stop using his spying equipment to monitor Optimus Prime's conversations.

Buzz!

2053 Daniel Witwicky Request: $4 Discussion: We didn't even ask why. It was probably to buy a few more of those waste-of-time trading cards. The biggest problem was that Daniel had no friends with whom to trade. A consequence of being an annoying brat, I suppose. $4 was cheaper than Blaster's payoff. The only comprimise was for Daniel to agree to wait in the office until 9pm to ensure there was no more time to see anyone else tonight. Danny agreed, but only in exchange for the teddy bear head he found protruding from Prime's cab that must have been there all day since the morning photoshoot.  
Action: Request approved. $4 to be credited to Daniel Witwicky sometime tonight.

Buzz!

2100 Autobot City Finally, that marathon session was over. Prime and I retired to our quarters for some rest. But no rest for the wicked, nor the heroic for that matter. Right on cue, the alarms began to wail. It was the Decepticons. I rolled my head towards the monitor to see the panicking face of Magnus screaming something about Decepticons penetrating the main walls because the new security fence was not turned on and no-one could find the controller. "And come to think of it," he continued, "for some reason the long range artillery cannon was not left armed."

I coughed a little embarassed. Prime said nothing, but hauled himself from his stasis pod. I transformed and leapt into Prime's chest and we went about our business of standing out in the dark shouting at Autobots and after this evening's little problem, trying to remember which controller controlled which of the cannons mounted on Prime's shoulders.

0000 Saturday, Autobot City "Where are you going?" Prime screamed as I hopped out of his chest, the night sky still floodlit with explosions and laser fire.

And as if somehow Starscream heard my tired sighs, right on time he screwed up the day. Whatever the big gun was, Megatron should never have put Starscream in charge of it. But as per the script, he had managed to wipe out half his own troops with it. A collossal bang and a brilliant flash later, the showboating over some nonesense or another was over. Starscream crying that his chance to rule the Decepticons had gone, but that it was in his destiny and that Megatron's time would come. Megatron was screaming it was the last time he would trust Starscream again. Yeah right.

The 'Cons retreated leaving us alone for another day at least. I walked back towards the base, turning my head back over my shoulder to speak to Prime. "It's Saturday," I informed him "and I'm going to bed." and trudged off into the night.

It's not easy, being right all the time.


End file.
